


Respite

by SalviaNoctis



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Feelings, Guilt, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 12:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16264430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SalviaNoctis/pseuds/SalviaNoctis
Summary: Spartacus finds respite in an unexpected place.





	Respite

Night brought the promise of rain, but it failed to keep it.

The day ended abruptly, colouring the sky lemon, ochre, mauve, bringing with it a heavy heat that thickened the air and lay, like a blanket, on the men’s bare skin. In the flickering light of the torches, sweat gleamed on their limbs, and some, unable to bear the heat, had stripped bare. They were irritable, swearing profusely, and some were violent. Steam from the baths coiled through the air whenever the doors to the thermae were opened. 

In the narrow cells of the ludus, it was torture. 

But at least it was torture shared.

Spartacus, with Varro beside him, sat motionless with his back to the cool stone of the wall. It was dim, the air still around them, though Varro’s eyes gleamed feverishly. Sipping wine, Varro looked slyly at Spartacus, smiling about something, though Spartacus did not know what.

“They are bringing the whores tonight,” Varro said, playfully, bristling with energy in a way Spartacus could not comprehend. He said the words lightly, though Spartacus could hear a dark current of resentment underneath, a small rebellion against Aurelia. Spartacus did not approve; she had hurt him, but she was his wife. Spartacus wanted him to see this – before Varro lost Aurelia like he had lost Sura. 

“You are welcome to them,” Spartacus replied, taking the wine jar from his friend. The wine was sour, thinned with water, but it refreshed him. “Though why anybody would desire such a thing in this heat is beyond me.” He drank more, to ease his thirst, or as an excuse to stop speaking – he was not sure.

“Have you not heard these animals speak? Cunt is rare enough for them to find, and costly too; they will not easily give up chance to sate themselves,” Varro said, with some contempt for those who sat howling in their own cells, before turning his gaze away from Spartacus, as though ashamed. “You deny yourself too much, brother. Come with us. It is not betrayal to turn your mind from unpleasant thoughts. It is no betrayal to Sura.”

“Just as it is no betrayal to Aurelia?”

Whatever Varro would have said was lost as the guards escorted the whores through the corridors, half-dressed in sheer tunics and standing barefoot in rows. The sight of them, their limbs bare, half-children despite the paint on their faces, repulsed him, but they were beautiful. One of them had hair like starlight, long and perfumed, brushing the curve of her back where it blended into her buttocks and hips; another was dark, her features bold and foreign, the eyes long and black, her skin warm brown. Spartacus wondered who had paid them, and how much. Under the smiles, some were fearful; some were still girls, small-hipped and small-breasted.  
The men shouted and jeered, yelling obscenities. Some made gestures with their hands that made the older whores grin and bare their chests, lifting their skirts to show what lay beneath. 

Varro, gripping the rods that barred the cell, pressed his face closer to watch them as they passed. He saw one, her legs bare and pale, her hair a dark waterfall, and reached out to touch her thigh. Spartacus quashed his disapproval. Varro was his own man, and even grown men needed to make mistakes to learn. Let him have his revenge. He will be bitter for it, but it will do him good. 

The guards unlocked their doors, and the men fell out in waves, the heat forgotten. Spartacus stood, keeping himself away from the rush, but did not move to step out. He stilled, breathing. He listened. He saw Varro approach a girl, touch her, cup her buttocks in his hands and kiss her, his tongue flickering in her mouth. Sounds came from the other cells: moans, the grunts of men, the slap of bodies coming together. 

Spartacus wanted to shut it out, ignore it, but could not. He remembered Sura and her body, bare in the half-dark, limned in firelight. He remembered her under him, murmuring. He remembered her lips and her touch, her eyes as they drifted shut in pleasure, and was aroused. Pleasure strained his loins, unacknowledged and unfulfilled, though Spartacus yearned to end it; just a moment in silence, in the privacy of the baths, and it would be over. He could sleep.

Instead, he sat. Closed his eyes. Waited. 

He waited a long time. 

The light touch of fingertips, delicate as butterflies, brushed the side of his face. Angry, his eyes snapped open. Spartacus grabbed the hand that touched him, squeezing firmly. He could feel the bones bending underneath, hard under soft skin. It was a girl. 

The girl gasped. 

Spartacus released her, appalled. “Apologies, I-”

She rubbed her wrist, looking up at him from under a veil of long hair. “It is I who should apologise,” she replied, low-voiced. “You looked troubled. I meant no offence -”  
“You have not offended me.” Surprised, Spartacus said no more, silent as the girl stepped back. She straightened the folds of her gown, a short pale tunic, which hung loosely from her, obscuring very little, gaping to show her thigh. Absurdly, she was fidgeting; he found that perversely amusing, that she would do something so childish, so unexpected of a whore, when he could see the smooth seam of her cunt. The sight tempted him. Spartacus looked away. He had felt her pulse, fluttering under his fingers, and known her to be frightened. Inexplicably, he regretted it. 

“Nonetheless, I should have waited. You appeared…disturbed.” 

He did not reply. 

Spartacus looked at her closely, though she did not seem to like his proximity. A strange habit in a whore, he thought, another one, though not one that perturbed him. She was clean, unmarked by disease, and her features pleasant. She was not a virgin, a prize to be paraded for the highest bidder – the upward thrust of her breasts, the sway of her hips attested to it – though she lacked the confidence of some of the others. She was young, but not a child. Most he had seen before, writhing on the laps of the other men, moaning as they were fucked. 

But he could not remember her.

As though she sensed his thoughts, she said, “I have not serviced this ludus before, but I have seen you…in the arena. It is…a great honour to be chosen by so noble a house.”

Decades ago, before he was sold into slavery, Spartacus would have laughed. Now, he could only smile ruefully. Beneath the cool mask that had settled over his face, Spartacus’ blood still raged, needing contact, needing sex. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman – touched anyone, even himself – but he had borne it. He would continue to do so. He would not dishonour Sura’s memory. There were other ways to – 

“What…what would you like me to do?” the girl said, looking uncomfortable, though not embarrassed, not truly. He could not fathom her expression. “Is there anything you…prefer?”

Spartacus felt his muscles, his flesh, tighten at the low sound of her voice, feminine and sweet. She had hair like wheat, her eyes not blue, but green as spring, tinted faintly gold. She was slender, her breasts gently sloped and tipped with delicate nipples. She was not Sura; not as beautiful, nor as desired. But she was there.  
It was unfair to her, but Spartacus, whether from the wine, or the heat, or the ache that had bloomed in him and had not abated, wanted her. Be selfish. Once will harm no one. Take what is offered. 

He hesitated.

She did not.

She untied the knots to her tunic, and it fell in a circle around her feet, soft as a whisper. Sweat, gleaming, sheened her skin. Nymph-like, she was sinuous in the warm, glimmering light of the sconces, her hair like molten gold. Spartacus, already aroused, responded immediately to the sight of her naked body; swiftly, he stiffened, and, amazed, he watched her nipples peak. She moved towards him, her arms held open like some statue of a mother goddess, unclothed, wanting nothing but to give, but he stopped her. 

“No,” he said, pulling down her arms. It was the second time he’d touched her, and the feel of her, the tender flesh and slender girlish curves of her limbs, left him heated. He trained his eyes on her face, struggling not to look down. “Not here.”

She looked confused, but did not protest. “Where?”

“Come with me,” he said. 

The other – he could hear them – were no longer in the sleeping cells. They had retreated further into the complex, away from the training grounds, to whore and gamble and drink. Raucous sounds, the clink of money in leather purses, of wine jars as they were cracked open or smashed, erupted from the building. Spartacus avoided the area. He did not want to be seen, as though, somehow, that would exacerbate his betrayal, make his lack of loyalty to the memory of his wife more deplorable. Sura would forgive him, Varro would understand, but he could not bear the jibes of the others. 

It shamed him, but Spartacus, aroused and drunk with something more than wine, could no longer fight it. He did not want to. He had grieved. Remember that, Sura; I grieved you. I loved you. Forgive me this. I am weak…

He did not hold the girl’s hand as he led her, in the dark, to the rooms that lined the sides of the training yard. He did not ask her her name. Opening a door, by instinct, he heard the rustle of her hair, the gown she had hurriedly laced back on, as she moved into the dim stillness of a sleeping space, long abandoned. Some champion, perhaps, had slept here, once; lived, fucked, and died in this very room. Now, it was empty, awaiting its next occupant. Who that would be, only the gods knew.  
Spartacus lit an oil lamp with a rush light, bathing the room with a glow the mellow colour of honey. The girl had perched on the edge of a low bed, staring at him. He felt, suddenly, unsure – not nervous, he thought, glad that he was not so ridiculous – but reluctant, not knowing how to proceed. She spoke before he could tell her to get out.

“What would you like me to do?” Those words, again. He still was not sure how to respond to them.

“Undress,” Spartacus said, unthinkingly. That was the best strategy, he thought. To do it all, without thinking. 

That, he could see, she understood. This, the cramped confines of a darkened room, reeking of sweat and dust, was her whole world. He felt pity for her, suddenly, rising like a tide. He pitied both of them; both young, both forced into impossible circumstances, by fate or by the will of some bastard god. But it was done, and they endured.  
She lifted herself gracefully, with greater poise than he thought a teenaged whore capable of, and removed her clothing for a second time. It was pleasing to watch her, unwrapping herself like a gift, slowly this time. The soft light of the oil lamp cast warm shadows on her body, collecting between her thighs, in the discrete creases of her elbows. Her difference to Sura, the alien form of her, her body a spread of foreign slopes and angles, of gently rounded curves, was helpful. Had she been less tall, more shapely, it would have been impossible for him to forget himself. Spartacus was thankful.

Nude, she stepped lightly out of her gown, much closer to him. This time, he reached out to touch her hair, rubbing a lock of it between his fingers, smelling it and finding the scent of spring flowers. It was clean, and it gleamed, burnished almost bronze in the low light. He stroked her cheek, enjoying its softness, pleased at the female feel of her. She arched into his touch, her lips opening in a small sigh. The sound affected him more than he would have thought.  
Too long. Far too long. 

Spartacus took his time, cupping her shoulders and taunting the skin in the hollow of her throat, feeling the rush and flood of her blood as her breathing quickened when, lightly, he brushed his lips against it. He did not want to kiss her. He touched her breasts, pressing the pads of his thumbs to her nipples and watching them pebble. He enjoyed it; reacquainting himself with sex, with women, like a craftsman returning to a long abandoned art. 

She was pliable under his hands, like clay cradled in warm palms, and she gasped when he steered her back, pushing her gently onto the bed. She watched him silently as he untied his subligaria, wordlessly shaking his head when she offered to do it for him. The sight of him, engorged and weeping moisture, the tip flushed dark, did not startle her, though she paused for a moment, lifting her eyes to his before looking away. He could see, quite easily, the space between her legs, glistening where her knees had drifted apart. He wondered at the warmth there, the taste of her. 

“Lie back,” he said. She reached forward to grasp him, perhaps to repay his earlier attentions, pumping his swollen length, firmly, in her hands. He throbbed in against her fingers, fighting the urge to groan, and let her touch him a moment longer before he took her hands in his. Any more, and he would have spilled over her fingers.  
“Lie back,” he said again, his voice gentle. 

She did, spreading her legs for him. The heat of her sex, where she cradled his leg, was moist against his thigh. He stilled, breathing deeply to slow his excitement. He caressed her sides, the smooth planes of her belly, and the brace of her hips, printing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of her breast. Lightly, he spread the slick seam of her, rubbing her folds, flicking her nub with his thumb. She was warm and wet, clutching at him tightly. She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging his scalp and moaning; he growled at the pleasurable sensation.

“Please,” she said. “Please.” She angled her hips, pushing herself against him. She kissed him, his throat and chest and shoulders, her fingernails digging into his back. She did not try to put her lips to his, something for which Spartacus was profoundly grateful, though her breath was hot on his skin, the press of her mouth soft on his body. Perhaps it reminded him too much of love, of Sura, to kiss her.

Not wanting to think about it, Spartacus buried his face in the curve of her neck, where it met her slender shoulders, and nudged her opening with his length. She squirmed, the muscles of her belly tense, and her breasts flushed against his chest. He felt her, quickly, to make sure she was ready for him; she was, moist and heated, and the anticipation of pleasure coiled in his gut. He thrust into her slowly, trying hard not to pound her into the bed. Her thighs, where they braceleted his hips, tightened around him as he moved forward, licking and nipping her throat. Her eyes glazed with pleasure as he filled her, rocking back and forth, leaving her body before pushing back into her warmth, gaining speed with every thrust. She reached frantically down to cup his balls, kneading them, stroking his cock, as he moved in her. “Please…” 

He felt sweat running in rivulets down his back, and tasted it on the hard tips of her breasts as they swayed with the force of his hips, smooth under his hands. He looked down at her, seeing the ecstasy on her face and her eyes squeezed shut, and abruptly slowed down, thrusting once, hugely, agonisingly slowly, into her. The look of sheer pleasure that contorted her face at that was almost too satisfying. Rubbing the pulsing flesh of her cunt, Spartacus came, emptying endlessly into her, watching her arch under him as she followed a moment later, her tight inner muscles dancing around him. Her soft thighs, gripped tightly in his hands, quivered against him.  
She did not push him off of her, or even remove him from her body. She held him between her arms and legs, running her fingertips down his back, caressing him in long passes, creating sensations so relaxing that Spartacus groaned, feeling almost luxuriously depleted. The guilt, he suspected, would set in soon, but it had not come yet. He was, he realised, almost calm. 

“What is your name?” he asked, after a while. It was still in the room but for the sound of their breathing, and the steady flutter of her heart under his ear. It was a strangely intimate thing, too intimate a thing to be indulged with a whore, but Spartacus had done many foolish things this night. One more would not harm anyone – except, perhaps, himself. 

She did not answer. He thought she might have been thinking of a lie; there was a tautness to her features that bespoke reluctance, or secrecy. 

“You need not answer, if you do not wish it,” Spartacus said. He pulled himself from her body and rolled off of her. They both lay on their backs, their arms and their legs almost touching. The sudden lack of contact made him feel strangely bereft. 

“Lamia,” she replied. “That is my name now. What it was before that, I cannot remember.”

Interest, borne of empathy, flashed in his eyes. She flushed, slightly, at the probing look he gave her. 

“You were not born in Capua?”

“No,” she answered. “Not in Capua – in Gaul.”

“Were you born free?”

“I do not remember,” the girl – Lamia – said. “If I was ever free, I do not remember it. But my mother…she was a slave, captured in Gaul. My father…I do not know.”  
She fell silent, as though unsure why she was telling him of this, of her life and her family. They were slaves – a gladiator and a prostitute, the lowest of the infames – and yet they lay side by side in bed, smelling of sweat and sex, whispering in the dark like lovers. Somewhere, the gods were laughing. 

“And you? Were you born a slave?”

“No,” Spartacus said, almost coldly, regretting it an instant later. “I was born free. A Thracian.” 

“I am sorry.” 

Spartacus did not reply. 

She was silent, too, for a while. “I must go,” she murmured, easing herself up and reaching for her tunic. She dressed quickly, covering her nakedness almost shyly, in a manner that bemused him. Watching her move, her movements measured and self-conscious, Spartacus became aware of shame settling over him like a pall. She is so young…she does not deserve my coldness…

“I will go now,” she said, looking down at him in a way that was almost expectant. He thought he saw her fingers reach out for him, but in the darkness he could not be sure. She turned to go.

“Wait,” Spartacus called out.

She paused by the door, turning her head to him. He rose, still unclothed, and walked over to her, standing close, his chest to her back, his groin brushing her buttocks. He kissed her neck, first on one side, and then on the other.

“Thank you,” he said. 

She leaned into him, just for a moment. Then she left. 

Spartacus did not follow. 

-0-0-0-0-  
The thermae were empty. It was a small blessing. 

Spartacus submerged himself in the icy waters of the cold-bath, content to be alone. The heat was abating, thinned by a cool current of wind from the sea, which flooded the air with the smell of salt. The heavy stone pool of the frigidarium was deep enough to drown in; once or twice, somebody had tried it. Tonight, the cool waters were tranquil, and Spartacus enjoyed a rare moment of silence, cleaning himself with a rough rag. 

Pulling himself from the pool and sending fans of water spreading across the floor, he rubbed himself with oil, a pointless luxury, though Doctore had repeatedly stressed the importance of staying supple for training. Roman customs were strange, but Spartacus had learned early to comply. Rebellion was not worth the punishment. 

He still bore the scars. 

Alone, naked in the dark, Spartacus thought of the golden-haired girl and paused. He had found pleasure in her body, pleasure that was, in truth, intense; but then, he had been so long without a woman that he would have enjoyed anyone. She had been sweet – young, her limbs strong and her breasts firm, her cunt an exquisite agony. There had been something of inexperience about her; an act, he was sure, but one that roused him. But Spartacus, who had emptied himself inside her, found himself hoping that he would never see her again. He felt guilty and ashamed. The mix was a bitter one. 

He found Varro in the cell they shared, his head against the wall and his eyes shut. He stirred as Spartacus entered, and the door was locked behind him.  
“Where were you?” he asked. “You were gone for hours. I was beginning to think…”

“You need not have worried,” Spartacus said. “I am sorry I kept you awake.”

Varro would have said something, the words springing to the tip of his tongue, but something in the other man’s gaze stopped him. The words shrivelled in his mouth like dead weeds. 

“Sleep now.” 

Varro nodded.

Spartacus lay down in the dark, and said nothing.


End file.
